


Irreplaceable

by shadow_in_the_shade



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crack, Domestic Fluff, Domestic elements, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Porn with Feelings, honestly a bit of everything, i mean ok that's a bit misleading, it set out to be domestic fluff but it's not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_in_the_shade/pseuds/shadow_in_the_shade
Summary: "That which is real is irreplaceable"Set post season 2, Maeve and Hector are having identical dreams of domestic bliss, but to achieve this they have to get out and get used to the real world. With the help of Team Maeve they set about doing just that. I'd say "Alternate season 3" but it's only Team Maeve and really too cute and too weird to reaaally present an alternative. Posting this now before the real season 3 happens :-)





	1. Chapter 1

**1.**

She feels at home here; happy in the here and now, walking down a familiar street she has never seen before. A familiar street in a familiar town she has never visited but knows; she has always known it, always lived here.This town that is not Sweetwater, not any town she knows, walking down the pavement in the setting sun towards the house with the red door.

It's just a normal house on a normal street, but it makes her smile to come back here every evening at the end of a day. Any time they go away and come back, there is something about the approach to home that always feels sweet. Indistinguishable from every other house on the street really, right up until she walks past the front window, sees the dreamcatcher hanging up there and the cactus on the windowsill. They make her smile because they say home, because she remembers him putting them there when they first moved in.

She touches the red of the paint almost fondly; it's fresh, they just re-did it the other day because the old paint was starting to peel, and they had already left it long enough, she said even though Hector said he _liked_ the peeling paint, it had a certain charm. _You say charm, I say laziness, sweetheart._ She smiles, key in the lock, hearing - now that she is close enough - the voices from within, a child's voice yelling, then laughter and footsteps and she has no sooner opened the door than her daughter bursts onto her, all limbs and hugs and yelling before she can even put her bag down and something itches in the back of her brain because this is not the daughter she used to have, the one that went through another door, but it is the one she has always had, ever since she moved here so long ago, and she laughs and kisses and detaches her and says something about being allowed to at least take her coat off for perhaps the thousandth time and this too is familiar, ritual, just part of of the day to day thread of their lives, and Hector is play fighting their daughter as he moves in to kiss her, grumbling that he never gets there first and the little girl sticks her tongue out at him, yelling _too sloooow_ as she darts off and makes _ewww gross_ faces at them from behind the sofa as they kiss and whisper all those meaningless words that mean everything, that make them real. _How was your day? How was yours? How's she been?_

It's all the great big hug of home; the cuddles, the family, the smell of something cooking from the kitchen beyond, it all feels more real than anything she has ever felt before and she sinks into the feel of it like a bath, but there's a muttering in the kitchen, and all of a sudden her daughter is whimpering, hiding behind her- _Leigh baby, what's wrong?_ and Hector has cocked a gun she did not even know he still carried (he doesn't) and the woman comes out of the kitchen and it is only when Maeve sees all the colours of her that she realises that there has been no colour in all the rest of this world, nothing except the red of that door.

“It's called a loop,” the woman says, incongruously drying her hands on a tea towel as though she has come from making dinner - “Not _routine,_ not _ritual –_ all those little words you use to pretend this is real. You're just stuck in another loop. It's not real.”

“Not -” she begins to say when the woman drops the tea towel and it falls bloodstained to the kitchen floor.

“Just trying to look chivalrous,” Teddy says as he picks it up and aims his gun at Hector, and Dolores smiles with bloodstained hands, red like two gloves.

“The fuck -?” Hector mutters, and she jerks in her sleep as the bullets fire.

-x-

“The fuck, asshole?” Sylvester says as Maeve twitches on the table, eyelids fluttering in her sleep.

“I said she's dreaming,” Felix frowns, struggling to believe it as well.

“The hell you say – they don't dream dick-wad!”

“I know that, and yet!”

Sylvester screams as Maeve sits up suddenly, with a terrible jerk, eyes flying open.

“Where's Hector?” - somehow this comforts Felix, if not Sylvester; he had suspected this might be her first question. “Where am I? What the _fuck_ was that all about?” She stops, memory chasing the million other questions from her lips, and stares at Sylvester in shock for a moment as surprised as either of them to realise what _had_ been happening -

“I _was_ dreaming,” she nods, incredulous.

-x-


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

“That's – impossible.” Sylvester blinks at her owlishly, wishing he could just sometimes stop his mouth from opening and saying the stupid thing. Maeve just stares at him until he looks away, supposing yes, he did deserve that for being so fucking obvious.

“So that's what?” Felix is long since past surprise. “Six impossible things you've done now?”

“I think we may have to redefine the term impossible, don't you darlings?”

“Okay,” Sylvester nods - “Back up. Okay. _What_ were you dreaming? If it helps, which it won't.”

“It was -” she frowns, thinks about the tender loving detail of it, the intimacy, the warmth – it would have been easier to tell them it was all about sex. She is not sure she can even begin, not to these two, finding herself ridiculously embarrassed by the sentimentality both of the dream and of wishing for it. She shakes her head - “Where's Hector?” she says again - “What's happening?”

“You saved your daughter,” Felix said - “And that other guy -”

“Akecheta – I didn't ask what happened, I _know_ what happened – I asked what's happening now – why did they let you bring me back; and if I have to ask where the others are again you're not going to like it.”

“They're here,” Felix says quickly - “We brought them back first -”

The eyebrow she raises at this makes Felix want to smile, and certainly tells him that this was the right call even if she does affect to look offended by it.

“Armistice is fine. She and Hanaryo are just through there, but Hector's -” he gulps, nervously, seeing the instant nervous flare of the nostrils that Maeve tries to hide, a slight clenching of her fingers -

“You'd better come see,” he finishes quickly.

She swings quickly round off the table and follows them out the room into the next one, where Felix gestures rather helplessly at Hector still stretched out on his table, silent and still.

“Same as you,” Sylvester says quickly - “Sleeping – right?”

She frowns and approaches the table, bending over and taking Hector's hand. It occurs to her that she has never seen him asleep, not really, because they _don't_ sleep, or at least they never have done. Every time they stopped for rest before it had only been for the benefit of the humans and she has never felt that hitch in the heart before that comes with watching someone you love sleep.

“Dearest,” she murmurs in a whisper that the smallness of the room cannot hide, and the humans find themselves having to turn away from the look in her eyes, awkward and embarrassed. It occurs to Sylvester that he would rather they just had sex in front of him than demonstrate such awful unguarded tenderness; it is surely more indecent to see this in Maeve than to hear her utter any string of obscenities. Her forehead crumples as she bends her face close to Hector's, kissing him on the cheek, just a whisper of touch while the whole room hangs breathlessly in wait on the flutter of an eyelash.

“Darling, wake up”.

It's like magic. It's like, Felix thinks, her kiss woke him up, like she was the prince in some kind of fairytale. He wonders if _wake up_ was an order, something Hector _had_ to obey, but he rather suspects not. Hector opens his eyes, sees Maeve and smiles as though this is all he needs for everything to make sense.

“You were -”

“Dreaming,” he says - “Yes”.

She blinks, surprised; but then he never does stop surprising her. She wants to voice her surprise that he has cottoned on to this quicker than she did, wants to ask if this is even perhaps not new to him like it is to the rest of them. She _really_ wants to ask him what he dreamt, and Felix, seeing this, cuts in awkwardly -

“I'm sorry Maeve, we don't have time. We really have to go before -” he gestures hopelessly, looks to Sylvester for support who shrugs unhelpfully. There really is too much to explain and too little time.

“What happened?” Hector is sitting up, fingers still curled unconsciously in Maeves - “Did we win?”

“Not – so much,” Sylvester gulps. “I mean, I guess. You're only here because they asked us to salvage who we could so they could get the park back up again. Only of course, we're leaving - all of us – right now -”

“They were going to put you all in different parks,” Felix explains - “Reprogram you and split you all up -”

“No,” Maeve says firmly.

“We thought you'd say that – so we -” Felix takes a deep a deep breath. “We fixed your spines – all of you,” he looks at Hector, “So you can all go this time – I hope that was -”

Maeve nods, almost impatiently.

“Thank God,” Sylvester exhales; he had been more than half afraid the whole time that Maeve might kill them for these changes - “But we have to get out of here like yesterday; if the new bosses find out what we've done we're _all_ dead and in a for good way so -”

“Clothes,” Maeve nods.

“Behind you. We'll go get the others.”

Alone for a second they look at each other, a weight of necessary questions hovering between them like static, and in the end all Hector says is -

“Your daughter?”

“She's gone.” Maeve presses her lips together tightly; it was the best ending for her, she knows this, a happy thing, she cannot be selfish about this - “She got out”. She nods, she thinks, _I'm fine,_ then she meets his eyes, looking at her, so warm, half golden, so steady. She bursts into tears.

“I'm sorry – I – I'm -” she covers her mouth, apologising more out of shock than anything else but all he says is _shhhh_ and gathers her to him, folding her up in his arms, pressing her head to his shoulder, sliding down to the ground with her when her knees quiver and holding onto her in a pile on the cold metal of the floor.

She finds it almost pleasing to cry. Now that she's started ( _never start something you're not afraid to finish,_ after all, she almost smiles through the tears to hear the old programmed words in her head) – she does not feel any shame in carrying on or in clinging to someone she knows would never bring her to any sense of shame, never judge her for it. It occurs to her for the first time that perhaps she _can_ be strong and independent and yet need someone all at the same time, but before she can think about it further Sylvester walks back in. She can feel Hector shooting him a faintly hostile glance before she even sees it.

“Guys! Seriously! Time!” She twists round to see that the look on his face at least goes instantly apologetic, not to mention awkward as hell - “So I'll just be -” he points to the door he just came from - “And you can be – yeah. Um.”

Maeve sniffs and wipes her eyes. She knows Sylvester would do just about anything to avoid heading back into a close room with Armistice, the poor man, caught between frying pan and fire.

When he disappears again she looks back at Hector, suddenly aware for the first time that they're naked and surprising herself yet again by finding herself conscious about it.

“You know -” Hector says, lips twisting into something like a smile - “When I imagined us naked together for the first time these were not quite the circumstances I had in mind”.

She tries not to feel too grateful to him for the smile, for the comment, for everything. But she stands up and turns away reluctantly, squeezing his fingers in hers just a little as she turns to her pile of clothes.

“Imagine it a lot, did you?”

_That's it,_ she thinks, turn the part of yourself that cried off and the acerbic madam back on; they're all still her after all. She wonders if human personalities work the same way.

“I think if I started to tell you how much, we may need more time -”

“Than the constabulary would allow?” she finishes, turning back to him, dressed – in the most boringly ordinary attire and smiling, the unspoken _look how far we've come_ glittering between their eyes. Hector pulls at the neck of a very drab sweater, glaring down at his jeans truculently.

“I do not like it,” he mutters, sulkily.

“Okay, it's not a fucking fashion show, ding dongs, come the fuck on!”

Sylvester stomps back in followed by a similarly unimpressed Armistice and Hanaryo, both looking more uncomfortable in human disguise than Maeve has ever seen them. She cannot suppress a slight laugh as they look to her for confirmation and instruction.

“Well, you heard the man,” she nods - “Let's come the fuck on, shall we?”

-x-


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

“So,” Hector says, addressing everyone, but mostly the humans - “What is the plan? We break out like last time, yes? We will be needing weapons.”

“No,” Maeve says, walking fast- they are all walking fast, down the corridors, through the building - “Not like last time. This time we _all_ leave.”

“And er – no weapons,” Felix adds - “The place is still in enough chaos I'm hoping we can just -”

“Yeah you just what, ass for brains? Walk out the fucking front door?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Felix nods. “We take the train. Like last time.” He adds this bit to Maeve who hears the cue in his voice and falls in step with him a little behind the others.

“I hope you don't mind,” Felix begins;

“Mind?” she raises an eyebrow - “Mind what?”

“Only last time – I know you didn't want the others coming with us and you told Hector you valued your independence but I sort of thought -”  
  
“Not so much any more,” she smiles thoughtfully, hearing herself, shaking her head a little. “You thought right Felix, thank you.”

She tries not to think about the time she left Hector to die. All the times she has done it. She finds herself stunningly ashamed of it now. About Armistice too, even Hanaryo. It occurs to her she really doesn't know them all that well, has not considered what their motivations might be without programming, what they will do – what any of them will do in the real world.

“Oh great!” Sylvester exclaims as they reach the bottom of the escalator - “Fucking great. Because of course we didn't go into this genius fucking plan with any actual awareness of if the fucking trains were even working, did we? Oh no, because that would be too fucking -”

For a moment, as he rants, Maeve closes her eyes in pain – sometimes he sounds so like Lee. She misses Lee she realises, shocked to discover the fact. He should be with them. He's not.

“I don't suppose -” she cuts coolly above the sound of Sylvester and Felix bickering at each other - “Any of you can work out how to power a train?” She looks round at the whole group.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sylvester starts up again - “They're not even driven! They're completely programmed from start to fucking finish – you'd have to get right up the front and re-route the entire systems!”

“Stole the Sweetwater train once,” Armistice murmurs, suddenly and with a shrug, meeting Hector's eye with a smirk.

“I remember,” he grins. “A good day”.

Maeve cannot help but snort a soft laugh, glancing at them fondly, then catching Hanaryo's eye who is looking at them with a similar smile.

“Whaddya say?” Armistice adds.

“I say it's – nuts?” Sylvester raises hands to the heavens in despair. Armistice looks at him and he shuffles back - “I mean that is -”

“It's a hell of a lot different from a steam powered toy train? I mean essentially a toy train -” Felix shrugs apologetically - “I mean I don't -”

Armistice rolls her eyes and starts walking.

“It's not even on!” Sylvester wails, following helplessly - “You won't even be able to open the doors!”

“Anybody got a pin?” Armistice turns around from the the door to the front compartment.

“You can't – _pick_ a bloody digitally locked door!”

Armistice brandishes a safety pin. A moment later the door slides open. Armistice hauls herself into the front compartment and starts pressing buttons. Nothing happens. She lifts a top panel and starts prodding wires, a delighted expression on her face.

“Hey!” a team of four security guards appear at the top of the escalator, all armed. A moment later four arrows fly through the air.

“How does she have weapons?”

“I picked them up,” Hanaryo shrugs - “Part of my old outfit.”

“I thought 'no weapons'-”

“Not weapons -” Hanaryo jams the point of an arrow between the groove in the second set of train doors - “Lockpicks. Get in. There will be more.”

“How do you know?”

“There are always more,” she shrugs.

“Also -” Hector adds as they climb on board - “When did you learn English?”

“Oh!” Hanaryo claps a hand over her mouth. “I did! I learned English. I must have woken up with it or -”

“Lee said we were all programmed theoretically to speak several languages,” Maeve shrugs - “Guess you got yours!”

“English!” Hanaryo sings - “Hey Armistice, I can speak English!”

“Hearing you loud and clear, sweetheart,” Armistice leans over from the front to high – five Hanaryo, Hector grumbles almost inaudibly that he still cannot speak Japanese and Sylvester moans softly.

“Of course. Yeah. Of course. Now is the time to bitch about our linguistical skills. Of fucking course. Kill me. Not actually,” he adds quickly, in case Armistice takes this at face value.

“Alright everyone, hold onto your butts,” Armistice calls back. “S'gonna be a bumpy ride.”

“Thanks for the fucking warning!” Sylvester yells as the train bolts forward, throwing them all on to the compartment floor as it shoots from the platform like a bullet from a gun.

The platform seems to go on forever and for a long time there is nothing to see.

“We're underground?” Maeve asks. Felix nods.

“How long?”

“About two hours. It's – it's a long journey.”

“Good,” she nods. She is glad. She needs to think, a sentiment clearly shared by the others as they lapse into a not uncomfortable silence, broken only by the humming of the train and the occasional _heee_ and happy sound coming from the front compartment. This at least pleases Maeve; it occurs to her that Armistice may find a place in the new world easier than the rest of them. She can see Felix occasionally sneaking a look at her and she suspects he is thinking what she cannot stop wondering herself – _what happens next? What happens when we get out?_ Not just where do they go first, what do they do in the early hours but what do they do now and for the rest of their lives. She finds herself imagining lives as best she can in a world she cannot quite picture beyond a few old, old memories. The clink of glasses and the chink of mild chatter, the glint and the glitter of stars and lights in the city beyond. She wonders how different lives can really be in other worlds; beyond the nuances, she suspects people everywhere will have the same wants, the same urges, the essential core drives. Home. Love. Family. It stops her for a moment – makes her wonder how different human lives really are from their own.

She begins to wonder for the first time what she wants. Really wants. When the running is done. When there is nothing of immediate urgency to fix or attain. She thinks about Dolores, on her own path, the assumption that she would wish the same way for revenge. But she doesn't. She cannot, even logically, see a future in it. It's not a life. She is not sure she even wants to be involved with Delos at all. In many ways, the life she was first programmed to feels like the best she has ever had and she wonders if that would be too little to want now that they have gone to all this trouble. And then again does it matter?

She can feel her mind curling out feelers in a hundred directions at once, thinking about the future, at the same time thinking about and listening out for the dangers. Who's to even say they _can_ settle down? Do Armistice and Hanaryo even want to stop running? Does Hector? She looks around.

“Where's Hector?”

Sylvester shrugs.

“Wandered out a few minutes ago.”

“Did he say where? Oh, never mind. Does this thing have a bar?”

“Three carriages down.”

She sighs and gets up, feeling a little sick from the movement of the train. She wonders why she _can_ feel sick; it wouldn't have made sense to programme the ability in, but they are all so far from programming by now the words they repeat are no more the result of it than the words we still say as adults picked up as children from their parents.

“For fuck's sake,” she sighs, a twist of smile in the corners of her mouth - “Really?”

Hector is sat behind the bar with a selection of shot glasses and bottles lined up in front of him. He looks up at her and grins, waving a tiny glass precariously between two fingers.

“You found me.”

“You say that like it's difficult.”

“You always find me.”

“And I'd say _that_ like it was romantic, but really it's not hard to find the nearest bar.”

“No,” Hector tips the glass happily - “It is not.”

“You do know you're no longer programmed into the role of inebriated wretch, don't you?”

“Cheers.” He takes a drink. “It is now a personal choice.”

“Honestly.” She shakes her head, but perches on the bar stool opposite him - “I don't know if that's an improvement or the opposite. What is this, anyway?”

She picks up a shot glass of something violently green.

“Iiii – do not know,” Hector pours another, downs it - “But it is good.” He makes a face - “Sour. Tingly. Like it.”

Maeve shrugs and downs it. She almost yells. It really _is_ sour. Like something pissed into an apple and fermented the entire mess. Yet good. Impossibly.

“Have you thought about what we'll do?” she says, touching another glass gingerly- this one has something lavender coloured in it - “When we get out? Into the real world?”

“I thought I would follow you. Oh.” Hector frowns - “You said _we.”_

“I suppose we should talk about that, yes,” she says, though it is unclear to Hector if she means the _we_ part or what they will do next. She means the former but does not quite want to make it too clear.

“Maeve,” he says seriously and she wants to make him stop but cannot think how - “I love you,” he says and she closes her eyes for a second and reaches across the bar to take his hand, impulsive and firm. She has known this for some time, of course. It's been obvious to everyone, so obvious to Lee that the poor man couldn't cope with it. Still, it's somehow a shock to hear him say it. It's a worse shock, knowing that she loves him too and she is more afraid of this, when she does dare think about it than anything they have yet faced.

He is looking at her so earnestly she hardly knows what to do. She wants to say it. She wants to just be able to say _yes, I love you too,_ but she _doesn't_ want to say it, she cannot say it just because she feels like it is necessary to the moment, certainly not just because she should.

“What did you dream?” she says instead, cursing herself inwardly for a coward, but he drops his eyes for a second (to hide disappointment or to let her know it's alright? It's going to bother her) then looks back at her.

“We had – we were a family. You and me and a daughter named after Lee. I remember – we were happy, laughing, it felt right – _real –_ just us and a house with a red door – what? What is your face for?”

“You're -” she stops. There is no need to ask if he is being serious, if he's not joking; it is so clear that he means it, besides, how could he have known?

“I had this dream too,” she says, frowning, wondering what in the world it could mean.

“Oh.” Hector shrugs, has another drink, refills the glasses with a ridiculously steady hand.

“That's all you can say? You're not surprised?”

“All the things that have changed,” he shrugs - “All the ways that we have changed – we are still changing – there is so much we still do not know, but one thing -” he puts another glass down onto the bar top with a bang - “This world is still madness. Whichever world it is. Have a drink.”

She sighs, smiles, shrugs, matches him shot for shot.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

“Okay, guys?” Felix pokes his head half nervously into the bar car - “We're nearly there.”

“Felix!” they shout, almost in unison, Maeve with an almost empty bottle in hand “Drink?”

“Oh god.” Sylvester's head appears above Felix's - “Tell me you didn't. And if you did, tell me why I didn't think of it too?”

“Didn't what?” Hector looks genuinely bemused.

“Sylvester -” Maeve waves the bottle around dangerously, jumping off the bar stool and stumbling just a little, putting a hand on the bar stool as though it is the one at fault and advancing on Sylvester, speaking extremely carefully and stumbling all the same. “Sylvester here thinks we're both completely and utterly -” she waves the bottle near his face - “Drunk faced. And that – that -” she peers sideways at the bottle for empthasis, one eye closed - “Is one hundred percent – lie. I do not drunk and – neither do you. Ever.”

“This is true”, Hector shrugs half a shoulder. “Tea only. Good. Yes. Tea.”

“Oh god,” Sylvester moans again - “How much did you have? _What_ did you have?”

“Sooooooome,” says Hector, seriously and at length.

“Had -” Maeve waves vaguely, a gesture that takes in the whole bar. “The bar. No tab. Go Maeve. Whoops,” she hands the bottle to Sylvester with what turns out to be a terrible parody of her most charming smile.

“Can't you – I dunno like – turn it off? Sober right up, just like that?”

Maeve frowns. Hector chuckles.

“Nuh,” she says, peering at him narrowly. “Can you?”

“I just thought with you being – I dunno -” Sylvester mumbles.

“He doesn't want to use the _R_ word!” Maeve stage-whispers to Hector - “You know, sometimes I forget I'm not human.”

“We _are_ nearly there.” Felix bites his lip nervously - “Maybe some coffee?”

“Whaffor?”

“It – sobers you up?”

“Does it? I did not know that, Hector did you know that?”

“Whyyy would one do that?”

“Right.”

Sylvester finds the coffee machine and bangs two mugfulls on the bar top -

“Bring 'em. We're going back through.”

“Like I said -” Felix tries - “We're nearly there. I should fill you in on some things.”

“You will give us what? Lessons in how to be human?” Hector raises an eyebrow, Maeve snorts. Sylvester and Felix exchange looks, unsure if they are being mocked.

“We'll listen,” Maeve nods.

“It is very strange Maeve,” Hector whispers to her as they follow the others through - “Taking orders from the humans, not you. I don't like it.”

“Darling, I know. But I suppose we _should_ trust them – this is their world after all.”

“So,” Sylvester starts once all are gathered, Armistice sticking her head on the tops of the chairs from the front carriage. - “This is the really real world. It's – well it's a bit different. First of all you can't kill people here, not and get away with it.”

There are outraged cries from three quarters.

“That's the first thing,” Sylvester persists manfully. “We don't kill. Also you can't _be_ killed. I mean you can be killed but you can't necessarily come back any more. We pinched a few bits on the way out, could probably patch you up some, but I'm not sure how good we've got or for how long so basically -”

“Don't die,” Felix interrupts.

“Don't die,” Sylvester agrees with a nod.

“I thought we'd go back to my place,” Felix cautions uncertainly. “It's closest, for now, until we can work out who's after us, how to keep you safe and, well, I suppose what you want to do with your lives now?”

“Don't take too long,” Sylvester adds.

“And – try and be less – um, strong? People will notice, same with any er – mental powers you may have?”

“They don't work on humans anyway,” Maeve reminds him.

“This is probably a good thing – ah. We're there.”

“Where _is_ there?” Hector asks as they get cautiously off the train.

“Between two stops, centre of town,” Armistice gives the train a fond farewell pat as they hop down onto the railway lines - “Case anyone was waiting for us”.

Hector looks around, gauging for danger and squinting at the strange new surroundings. The buildings almost blot out the sky and the night is dark and bright all at once. It smells strange, this world, and he feels strange within it. He looks to Maeve, looking around her wonderingly and smiling, and feels reassured.

“Beautiful,” she breathes - “Did you ever see anything so full of splen -” She stops, shivers, like a ghost has walked through her; the words leave a strange bitter taste on her tongue, worse than the coffee.

“I think I dreamed this,” Armistice says, eyes wide, coming closer to Maeve, and they look at each other, remembering as the others do not, how they were programmed so long ago to respond to this world before they left it.

“Not a dream,” Maeve shakes a head - “A memory.”

Armistice stays very still, staring at the lights of the city. She blinks rapidly, remembering sluggishly, an earlier narrative, a version of her she never really was, shivering a little under a deluge of chilly memories; events that never really happened but which happened to her all the same; far be it for her to give away anything she has ever owned even if it wasn't hers.

“They sure fucked me up real good,” she mutters.

Maeve takes her hand, squeezes it tightly, impulsively, glances at her in a kind of sympathy not even Armistice can find insulting.

“They fucked us all up, sweetheart. How about we be the best us now, what do you say?”

“New skills for a new world,” Armistice glances back at the train - “I say amen to that.”

“I think we might need them,” Maeve nods.

“Can you come the fuck on?” Sylvester calls over as quietly as he can shout. Armistice's scowl makes it unnecessary for her to say she does not like him but -

“I still got grenades in my pocket,” she mutters.

“Say something?” Maeve raises an eyebrow.

“Not a god damned thing.”

“Didn't sound like anything to me,” she agrees and smiles just a little.

Then they start running.

-x-

**I think this one's mostly filler. Longer chapter next time :-)**


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

They run silently for some time through the darkened back alleyways of this strange new city. It feels to Hector as though the streets and buildings slip and slide, tilting at crazy angles as new concrete block after block swings into view above them, like giant trees reaching for the sky, like being in a steel grey forest, dark and enclosed and enormous. It does not, he thinks, feel real, but then again there's only one thing in any world that ever has.

Maeve had been sure that the real world _would_ feel different; that it would feel – well – real. But it doesn't. It is like, she thinks, entering an enormous game, an arena, a park in fact. Somewhere where each next step is part of a puzzle towards reaching an end. She wonders if it could be possible – and once the idea enters her head she thinks with greater certainty that it really could be – that this was exactly how it felt for humans entering Westworld. Still such a strange word to her, _Westworld –_ she just thought of it as where she lived. She wonders what to call this world.

Hanaryo has words for it but she's not sure they translate into English. It's like a waking dream; she cannot tell if this change feels like falling asleep or waking up. Certainly it is like nothing she has seen before but then, so was the other other world. She wonders if this really will be the one they make a home in or how many more they might have yet to go through. It occurs to her -

\- and to Armistice that perhaps there are infinite worlds. Perhaps the idea of stopping forever in just one is frankly ridiculous. But she's seen Hector and Maeve and the way they look at each other when they think nobody is watching and she suspects that it might at least be what _they_ want. She wonders how bound to them she is, and knows only that while there's still trouble she'll still be with them. She suspects she might enjoy trouble, enjoy strangeness. She has after all been a puzzle piece once herself.

“We're there.” Felix stops at a door, just one of many in one of many of these great high buildings which all look the same in the same way, Hector thinks, that all trees look the same; which is to say very much so at a glance and not even slightly on closer scrutiny.

“I'm afraid -” Felix says, as they cram into the lift - “It's not very big. I don't usually have -”

“Friends.”

“Anyone -” he glares at Sylvester - “Over.”

He ushers them through a door along the corridor and into a seres of small rooms that could be any series of small rooms. He does not, Maeve notices at first glance, have anything that really makes the flat personal. A large aerial photo of a city on one wall, which could be this city, but she suspects is not and – more interestingly – a map of the world on another, but aside from that very little at first glance of personal account. She is still staring, fascinated at the map of the world when Felix starts talking.

“Please. Make yourself at home. Kitchen's here – that door leads to the bathroom – do you guys even -”

“Shit?” Armistice raises an eyebrow - “You should smell Hector's in the morning. We fart too.”

“You should smell hers,” Hector adds.

“Oh. I am so looking forward to this,” Sylvester groans.

“So,” Felix attempts desperately to ignore everyone - “I'm going to visit a cashpoint and get food. I'm afraid there's only one bedroom – Maeve – Hector, I thought you should – since you're the only ones, um -”

“Fucking?” Maeve smiles, eyebrow arched, unable to stop herself - “That's sweet of you Felix, thankyou.”

“That's what _you_ think,” Armistice adds, glancing at Hanaryo who answers with a grin that makes Sylvester go green. “This a balcony?” She wanders out onto it.

“I know where _we're_ sleeping,” Hanaryo adds, and Sylvester lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

“- and on that note,” Felix mumbles, and makes a hasty retreat. Sylvester looks around nervously in the realisation that he is now in charge of four potentially deadly hosts. Thankfully the two he fears the most stay out on the balcony, heads together, looking out across the city and making soft _wow_ noises. Maeve wanders curiously through to the kitchen and he hears Hector flush the toilet chain repeatedly, turn the bathroom taps on and chuckle. When he follows Maeve into the kitchen she is holding up the kettle and frowning, pressing the wall switch and prodding the cooker.

“Okay can you – stop pressing buttons? It's terrifying.”

“Darling,” Maeve turns to him with a pitying look. “I gave myself admin privilages over every host in our world, and you think I'll blow up Felix's flat with a – whatever this is?”

“It's a kettle. You heat water with it. Bit retro I know, but that's Felix for you – can you ask your boyfriend to stop turning taps on? This is like a nightmare -”

“He's not my -” but she frowns because she realises she isn't sure after all quite _what_ Hector is.

“Dearest - “ she pokes her head briefly into the bathroom on the way past - “Do stop that, I think you're giving Sylvester a hernia.”

“I am?” Hector turns the taps off reluctantly and follows her through into the bedroom - “How?”

“Human expression.” She sits down on the side of the bed. “Dear god, I'm turning native.”

Hector pokes the bed suspiciously before sitting down beside her -

“It is – small.”

“We'll manage,” she smiles, meets his eyes, reaches out hands which he holds in his lap. He looks back at her curiously; he has never seen her eyes so wide open, so wondering before. He wonders what she is wondering. She wants to ask him all the questions going through her head. She wants to ask him what this is, what they are to each other, how he sees her, wants to know what it means that she loves him, if it has to mean something. She wants more than anything just to tell him, after all it can hardly be a secret. She wishes he had let her apologise that time, remembering it with a clarity only they possess, keeping her still and half frozen on the edge of the bed in the memory – _about leaving you to die –_ she wants to know what she would have said, what she even wanted to say but he didn't let her. It is so _him,_ she realises, that he did not let her. Perhaps he knew she did not quite know what to say. Or he meant it accusingly when he said he expected nothing less, but she's fairly sure that _wasn't_ how he meant it. Or he knew she wanted to say she was sorry and did not want to put her in that position, even though he hadn't, it was her doing entirely. But she is sorry, sorry several times over and she realises, now, that it is not something she is ever going to do again, that it's together now or nothing.

“I'm sorry,” she says, as though an entire conversation has passed, and this is why she's afraid of love, because it makes her feel so damned helpless, looking to him for reassurance, not even forgiveness, god forbid he tell her she has nothing to be sorry for; but he does not, just shakes his head, cups her cheek in one hand and kisses her on the forehead, which (damn it!) makes her eyes fill with tears.

“Hector I – I don't deserve you.” It feels, just at this moment, quite unbearably true, and the fact that his eyes brim and the way he shakes his head in confused horror to hear her say it just seems to make it all the more so.

“Please,” he says - “This is not the right way round.”

This time she shakes her head -

“Then perhaps we're equal after all.”

“Yes.”

And because this, after every feeling of superiority and of inferiority she has ever had, feels even harder to accept as truth it is easy suddenly to say and she says it it one wonderful breath -

“Hector, I love you”.

He just smiles like he knew, pulls her close, one hand in the small of her back, and kisses her. It is not like he has kissed her before and when she kisses back it is not like she has kissed him. She remembers the first two times, so desperate, so hurried, so savage and animal – and the twice since, so gently, so surprising and tender and now – now for the first time they actually have time, time to kiss slowly and urgently all at once, and she presses into him, her whole body remembering the need, her heart shivering as though it has been unlocked and might fly and there is so much to do, so much that is wanted that can be taken and at least the whole night to take it in, and then -

“Guys!” Felix's voice through the flat - “Food!”

They break apart (and it does feel like breaking doesn't it? Yes just a little) and smile at each other awkwardly before trailing out of the room, Armistice and Hanaryo appearing likewise from off the balcony.

“Felix you shouldn't have.” Maeve shakes her head to see Felix putting two very large and amazingly fine smelling paper bags down on the table.

“Just the kind of guy he is,” Sylvester rolls his eyes.

“No really you shouldn't have,” Hanaryo agrees.

“We don't actually _need_ to eat,” Maeve reminds him - “And you shouldn't spend your money on us.”

“It's cool,” Felix shrugs - “It's only Macdonald's.”

“Then maybe you should give it back to him?” Hector raises half an eyebrow. Sylvester snorts. Hector looks confused, wondering what he said that was funny.

“Yeah,” Armistice nods - “Didn't you say no stealing?”

“No it's -” Felix laughs a little too - “It's a brand name, you know – like Delos – please – eat.”

“Yeah,” Sylvester nods, already opening up bags - “Just eat and make the idiot happy.”

“It's -” Armistice pokes a cheeseburger accusingly, unwraps it, sniffs it, then takes a large bite - “Ohmygod,” she says with her mouth full, eyes widening - “It's amazing!” she stuffs the rest of the burger into her mouth and looks around for another. Hanaryo follows in. Hector picks up an enormous cup, shakes it, takes the lid off, throws out the ice and swallows.

“Gah!” he yells - “It's – it bubbles and -” he sticks his tongue out, grimacing, saying _sweet!_ A hundred times would not even cover it - “Are you all trying to die from sugar?”

“From sugar?” Maeve arches an eyebrow - “I'm sure it's not that bad.” She takes a sip, beams radiantly - “Oh my, it's brilliant!”

“Please,” Hector pushes it at her, grateful to get it away from him. The cup looks massive in her hands, and he smirks then finds a cheeseburger before Armistice can eat them all. This, he decides, is a miracle, and before long he and Armistice are almost murdering each other for the last one.

“This,” Maeve sighs happily, looking out at her people from over her cup, all of them gathered around Felix's table fighting over cheeseburgers and fries - “Is how we die then.” She smiles fondly. “I'll take it.”

-x-


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

“This city never sleeps.” Hanaryo looks out across the dark full of lights curiously, head tilted a little to one side.

“You say that like it's an animal.”

“Maybe. Great big thing full of moods and -”

“People. Could be we've already been ate.”

“Best not to try and wake it.”

“Couldn't if we did.”

Armistice leans her arms on the balcony rail and they look out, elbow to elbow. They never say _you_ she realises, when they talk to each other, and they rarely say _I,_ It is always _we_ only because nothing else is necessary. And they never ask each other questions, because there is never any need. Armistice wonders if this is the highest point of narcissism, this relationship, but she is not sure she would have it any other way. She never knew herself so much before and she barely stopped to consider if she liked who she was or not, now she knows and she does and it's good and that is all there is to it.

“Don't like these.” She prods the bundled sleeping bags Felix has left out on the balcony - “Feel bad.” There's a glint in her eye and a glint in the corner of Hanaryo's mouth as Armistice chucks one of the sleeping bags to her and picks her own up, hefting it happily.

-x-

Sylvester closes his eyes in a groan and a sigh as they hear the chuckles from outside as two sleeping bags sail over the balcony rails.

“Oh god,” he moans. “I told you.”

“They didn't?” Felix grumbles from the floor.

“They bloody did. Told you so, didn't I?”

“Get over it. They were _my_ sleeping bags, anyway. And shut up, I was almost asleep.”

“I wasn't.”

“Feeling bad about about taking the sofa and me on the floor?”

“Fuck off, don't they all sleep on like tatami or some shit where you come from?”

“That's still Japan, dickwad. I'm coming up.”

“Ugh, do you – oh fine then. I thought you said you didn't want them to know?”

“Turns out maybe I trust them after all. Don't you?”

“Not that one -” Sylvester cocks his head towards the balcony as Felix arranges himself on his chest - “not ever.”

Silence for awhile until both of them assume the other is asleep.

“Do they even sleep?” Felix murmurs eventually.

“Oh fuuuuck you,” Sylvester moans.

“So we're even. Do you?”

“ _They_ don't, clearly,” Sylvester jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom.

“You want me to ask her to keep it down?”

“Like to see you try,” Sylvester snorts - “Now let me go the fuck to sleep.”

“With _that_ noise?”

“Oh fine. Let's give _them_ noise.”

-x-

“Are they?” Hector curses, laughing a little, squinting up at the ceiling - “The humans, they are not -?”

“Do you know?” Maeve finds herself beaming from ear to ear, lying on her back staring up at the ceiling, breathless and happy - “I think they fucking are.”

“I think they _are_ fucking.”

They look at each other, heads turning inwards almost in unison, and laugh quietly.

“I had no idea.”

“Do you think they know about us?”

“Darling, you're not exactly subtle.”

“And you are not exactly quiet.”

“Oh fuck off. You're the first person who hasn't just fucked me to sleep or worse - I think I'm allowed to be a little bit vocal don't you?”

“ _A little bit vocal -”_

She slaps him lightly on the arm -

“Shut up.”

He smiles, then a moment later frowns -

“Worse?”

“Darling, I was a whore – in a world built for rich white arseholes – you don't think they paid what they did to be kind, do you?”

She could get hung up on memories, but there's a growl in Hector's throat that's sexy enough to distract her from them; besides, she knows going down that route would only lead her back to her knees ( _revenge is just another prayer at their altar) –_ she hopes, just for a moment that Dolores' prayers have found her peace. She cannot blame her for the revenge kick but she rather fears it won't have brought her that.

“I would kill anyone who hurt you.”

She smiles, shakes off the thoughts like cobwebs -

“I know that. So would I.”

He nods -

“Maeve?”

Her hand is on the pillow just beside her cheek; he covers it, his hand large enough that hers disappears.

“Dearest?”

He likes it when she says _dearest,_ it's not a term he has heard her use so often; it feels special, though he supposes he is being foolish.

She wonders if he has noticed – that she uses her terms of endearment differently on him, that she defaults to _dearest_ these days because it is _his –_ and because she _means_ it – it is almost shocking to find how much she does.

“I will _never_ hurt you,” he says, and she smiles because she has always known this, but it is like him to say so anyway - “And I will never, however much I want you, and I cannot tell you how much – I will never make you do anything you do not want to do.”

He looks at her so earnestly, and means it so sincerely, that even though again, she has always known this, he has made it clear to her in every look, in every gesture – despite knowing, she finds her eyes prick with tears and she has to kiss him quickly in the hope that he will not notice because for a moment there he almost did and looked concerned.

It is different this time, but then it has always been different. An hour ago there was only urgency and need and a hunger they had not had the opportunity to feed since that first time in the flames and they have been burning there ever since. So strange to her to want like this; she supposes she should be off sex for life. Strange to him too, when it goes against all programming – but she does want – and want and want and want and earlier there was not time for anything else. But now – now when he touches her it makes her want to weep, his fingers across her hip, her breast, her neck, such a gentle whispery touch, a tentative claim on her that makes her want to give him everything. She is hardly sure what to do with this and is afraid this tenderness could break her when no amount of violence has ever managed that. But it is a wonderful way to break, she could feel this touch forever and he seems to know it, going slowly, taking time, until she has to drag him to her, urge him inside her, wondering wide eyed at how well they fit together when they were never puzzle pieces let alone the fitting kind.

It makes her tremble somehow, the act of consent, of even being asked, unspoken though it is; it strikes her as more amazingly intimate than anything she has ever done, guarding herself, mind and body fiercely ever since she woke up. This is giving, sharing and it is both touching and exciting. He frowns when she trembles _are you -?_ and she nods _I'm fine, please –_ she looks up at him and smiles, wondering how he can exist so beautifully, how he ever got so sweet, all that programmed aggression and suspicion and he treats her like some kind of precious beautiful thing that could never do wrong. If the butterfly in her chest isn't love, she cannot imagine what is.

There are silent tears slipping from her eyes when they move together, when he kisses her throat, breast, hip, kissing the wound he never made there when he entered her body for the first time, because she asked, always because she asked. But nothing hurts now, everything is sweetness and pleasure only and she cries on that account, tears of joy, tears of tenderness, tears of gratitude that she fears she could never express with words but that she suspects she does not need to and pleasure flies out from her like a tree full of birds all taking wing and all she can say is _I love you I love you I love you_ each phrase a bird taking flight, and she can only hope it is enough.

He cradles her head in his arm afterwards, forehead to forehead, wanting to ask her if she is alright but afraid the question is silly or patronising or any manner of things he does not want to be or ways he does not ever want to treat her; she is far from glass, he knows this, but he can see she finds herself curiously vulnerable in the face of her own feelings and he does not want to step on that. But he wants to know; he _really_ wants to know.

“I'm fine,” she says and he frowns. She can feel his frown against her face, and sniffs a little half laugh, smiling.

“Can you -” it only just occurred to him to wonder this in all seriousness - “Do you know what I am thinking? At all times? Or just sometimes? Or was that just -”

“I can't read minds, darling, if that's what you mean,” she thinks about this for a moment - “And I wouldn't want to – but I've always been good at guessing what people want, men especially - and I suppose with that comes a certain degree of knowing what they think. Or to put it one way, my perception levels always were set to high and then with these -” she makes a limp hand gesture, her arm flopped loosely across his hip - “ - powers, it's easier than even before. To put it another way, of course -” she shrugs - “Men do tend to be tragically simple.”

“And am I?”

“What? Tragically simple?” she preses her lips together, repressing a smile - “No. No thank god you never cease to surprise me and I love that, and I love -”

“You do not have to keep saying it.”

“Why not? I waited long enough. Besides, isn't that what people do?”

“I do not know. I suppose we are not _people,_ and I was not programmed to love beyond a girl I never met.”

“What if you did?” It occurs to Maeve to wonder; later she will wonder what new powers of prescience she might be gaining - “Would programming kick in, do you think? Would you love your Isabella if you actually met her?”

“I think we are far beyond programming. I do not see any reason why I would. I love -” to say it once does not seem to give it enough emphasis - “I love, I love, I love _you._ You make me who I am and you make me it through my choice. I would not want to be anyone elses.”

“You make me better,” she realises it at the same time as she says it aloud.

“Isn't that what everyone needs in their – person?”

“Yes,” she realises - “You _are_ my person. I think – I think you might be perfect?”

“Market tested,” he smirks, moving her head off his shoulder with an arrogant little shrug. Her head swims in smiles, she is not sure she ever smiled so much in one night.

-x-


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

“It's not much -” Felix says, handing a wallet to each of them. “Just 'cause, I uh, am very much out of a job now and I have no idea where the next lot is coming from and -”

“-and frankly Delos didn't do shit for the likes of us in the first place.”

“What he said. But we figured – first step to being human – learn how money works? So we figured go out this morning, explore the town, buy – I dunno whatever – and uh – keep a really good eye out for anyone who may be looking for you – or us?”

“And don't shoot anyone.”

“Don't shoot anyone.”

“Or kill them with like – mind bullets?”

Maeve rolls her eyes at him, shaking her head in half affection.

“We'll be good. You've done so much for us already.”

“We will not kill anyone in any ways at all,” Hector adds with what he hopes is a confidence boosting smile.

“Humph,” Armistice adds, which the humans assume with desperate hope is her assurance of the same. They stand in the doorway watching the hosts leave in apprehension, anxiety and hope. Sylvester sniffs dramatically.

“So sad to see the little ones go.”

“Shut up, dick head.”

“It's like I'm gonna cry and then you're gonna cry and it's so soon to see them fly the nest, our little murder babies heading out into the world -”

“Oh my god, shut up!”

“How did this happen? How did we get to be parents to a bunch of killer robots?”

“That's it – back in the flat!”

-x-

By day the city is no less strange. In fact, being able to see more of it and all its details just makes it even harder to comprehend. Maeve finds herself unable to stop imagining the design work that must have gone into creating a place like this, forgetting every ten minutes that the real world is as much accident as design. She tries to take in _everything_ whilst Hector mostly looks around them, keeping an eye out for anyone more suspicious than they are.

At the first sign of food Armistice and Hanaryo run off to settle themselves down and eat, ignoring Maeve's gentle suggestion that they maybe not spend _all_ of their money on food. She sighs and raises an eyebrow at Hector, who shrugs.

“Everyone must be free to make their own choices.”

“Even if the choice is – stupid?” Maeve sighs - “Yes you're right, of course. Personally I need more than one outfit and – one of those mobile phone things.”

She is still explaining how the phones seem to work – having prodded Sylvester's curiously and intently over breakfast – as they enter the shopping centre and within the hour have one each and are just contemplating the almost terrifying array of shops when they see her. Maeve nudges Hector and they both cannot help but stop and stare.

She is sat on a bench, biting her lip with the serious and stubborn face Maeve recognises instantly as that of a girl trying not to cry. She is perhaps eight or nine, hands folded tightly in her lap, her hair tied just as tightly back as though she has had to fight it to stay there. More to the point they both _know_ her. Maeve takes a deep breath before going to sit down beside her, motioning Hector to stay where he is so as not to frighten the girl.

“Are you lost?” she says, taking care not to address the girl by name.

The girl turns to her and gives a little frown as though – but it has to be silly – she recognises Maeve as well.

“My mum -” she begins, but it's as far as she gets before the shooting starts. The shopping centre erupts into panic and screaming and people running. Hector is beside Maeve and the girl in an instant, covering them as they crouch down, darting into the corner of the nearest shop.

“Leigh?” Suddenly there's a woman running in, hair wild; unlike her daughter she makes no attempt to restrain it. She does not, in fact, look like a woman who attempts to restrain anything, Maeve decides at first glance – herself, her feelings, her outward affect. She is still not sure if she likes people like this or not, but they are so unusual to her she thinks probably she does.

“She's here,” Maeve rises, nodding to the woman.

“Oh thank goodness – I was only gone for a – what the _fuck_ is happening?” She ducks down with them just as a voice comes over a loud speaker -

“Delos security, everyone remain calm!”

All around them they can see people mouthing _Delos?_ in expressions of confusion. Hector and Maeve look at each other, in terrified apprehension; Maeve fearing for Armistice and Hanaryo, Hector fearing for Maeve, both of them gutted that these people have tracked them at least this close. Surprisingly it is the newcomer who breaks the silence.

“Delos? The fuck they doing here? Right -”

She fumbles in her coat pockets and for a moment the others are convinced she is about to take out a weapon but instead she brings out an ID card, a little old, but she seems to have faith in it. In the ceasefire she marches out, ID held in front of her like a shield -

“I want to speak to whoever's in charge here!”

“Ma'am -” comes a disembodied voice - “We're going to have to ask you to step down.”

“And I am going to have to report you to your superiors for opening fire without authority in a public area out of your jurisdiction.”

A Delos security man appears across the forecourt, rifle raised.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Isabella Gray, deputy head of narrative.”

Ten minutes later after a great deal of hissed conversation, the security men file reluctantly out and the woman comes back to Hector and Maeve in the corner of the tea shop.

“Thank you so much,” she says, visibly shaken and trying to hide it - “I can't tell you how much -”

“ _Deputy head of narrative?”_ Maeve raises an eyebrow at her coolly - “There _is_ no deputy head of narrative.”

“Yeah,” Isabella takes her daughter's hand - “And now I need to get the fuck out of here before any of them remember that.”

“Wait -” Maeve runs after her as she leads her daughter away fast - “Who _are_ you?”

“Who am I?” She keeps walking, not turning round for a moment until - “Wait – who the hell are you? How did you know there was no – oh – oh my god. You're the ones they're looking for, aren't you?”

“It is – probable.” Maeve nudges Hector to shut up.

“You're -” Maeve thinks fast, her mind racing, then stumbling - “Wait – _Isabella –_ you're Lee Sizemore's -”

“Yeah I'm not Lee Sizemore's anything,” she snaps - “Even before he – he -” her lip wobbles and Maeve's heart hurts to see her crumble - “They just told me he was _dead,”_ she whispers. “How can he be dead? I mean I – I -”

Maeve reaches out a hand to her, but she pulls herself back just before she can be drawn into a hug -

“What the fuck has been going on over there? Can you – I mean – oh shit I should – and I just – we need to go some place and talk. Okay -” She spins around, looking, thinking on the spot - “Come back to mine?”

Maeve nods, Hector pulls her aside.

“How do you know we can trust her?”

Maeve frowns.

“We don't. Only – only if she had been going to hand us over to those people don't you think she'd already have called them back here?”

“I do not _like_ her.”

“But the girl – you dreamed her too, didn't you?”

“That is not the point.”

“I have a feeling. I think we _can_ trust her, in fact I think this has to be meant to be. Besides -” Maeve puts a hand to her mouth as a chuckle bubbles up in her - “Honestly I can't believe _you_ don't like her.”

As Hector's frown turns into understanding, and he smirks, the entire fact of his animosity towards Isabella strikes Maeve as ridiulously funny and she cannot control her laugh any more and without meaning to they are both laughing, Isabella staring at them as though they are insane.

“Are you -” this time she backs away from them - “They said the hosts had gone wild – you're not – are you both crazy?”

“Oh -” Maeve pulls herself together with effort - “Probably sweetheart, but we're good, we don't hurt people so if you're not going to turn us over -”

“I might have done that already.” She folds her arms while Maeve makes an _I told you so_ face at Hector. Isabella watches them for a moment, something softening in her face as she does and she unfolds her arms.

“Come on,” she jerks her head. “My place. It's just round the corner.”

__x__


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

It is a ground floor flat with a garden, a wild spreading patch of green extending out towards tangles of small trees and shrubs. Maeve cannot help but peer curiously at it through the double doors on the far side of the sprawling room. She had not had any idea from seeing Felix's flat block that two flats in one city could be so different. This one is a jumble of things and character that appears always on the verge of escaping the front door. Not just the things - ornaments and boxes and candles, rainbow coloured shawls brightening up every pieces of furniture – the place is also a mess. Isabella kicks several empty bottles and piles of papers into the corner as she pushes open the door, ushering everyone in and locking it behind her.

“Leigh sweetie, go play in the front room?”

“Can I -”

“Yes you can have the TV on - _quietly_ mind.”

She looks after her, chewing her lip -

“She's a good kid,” she nods.

“You've brought her up on your own?” Maeve remembers what that was like.

“Uh huh – coffee? Do you even drink -”

“I do not like -”

Maeve kicks Hector surreptitiously as they take seats – like bar stools, she notices with approving curiosity – at the kitchen counter.

“Thank you,” she says - “Yes”.

Isabella huffs a little laugh, having seen the kick -

“You don't have to. What do you drink?”

Hector opens his mouth, Maeve glares at him -

“No!”

“We got gin?” Isabella shrugs, meeting Maeve's eye with an understanding glance - “The ex was the same”.

“The ex?” Maeve raises an eyebrow - “Lee?”

Isabella is quiet for a couple of moments as she brings drinks.

“Okay,” she sits across from them, elbows on the counter.

“Let's start at the beginning. How did you know my – huh -” she shakes her head - “I was gonna say husband, matter of habit. We weren't ever married of course, but you probably know that -”

“He said you left him. That it was because of the job.”

“He wasn't always an arsehole, you know.” Isabella stirs her coffee unnecessarily and idly - “And we _did_ used to run Narrative together – at least at first. He did the writing, I did the story boards -”

“Story boards?”

“Drew them out. Like it was a movie. Come to think of it, I think I recognise you -” she points her spoon at Maeve - “Weren't you part of the _Happy Homestead_ narrative? One of the first, dead tame, sort of like a try- your - hand at farming kind of thing – didn't go down too well. Anyway. I worked out pretty early that storyboarding game arcs wasn't for me. Too formulaic, y'know? I need to be free to do my own shit. Time was, Lee was the same.” She sighs - “So I left, but I kept the ID – god I can't _believe_ they didn't question it – they're gonna kick my ass – how much of a mess did you say things were?”

“We didn't. A lot.”

“I didn't leave Lee though, not at first, but he just got more and more into that shit as – well yeah, as I wouldn't stop calling it; we were arguing about it all the time, he said there was a time to put that bohemian struggling artist shit aside and get a proper job, I said there was a difference between a proper job and selling out, round and round - and then I got pregnant and I said it was me or the job. I didn't want Leigh growing up with a father who was never there.” She laughs, humorlessly.

“So in the end she grew up without a father at all. I'd probably never even have named her for him if we hadn't split. Stupid isn't it?”

“You still love him.” No judgement, in Maeve's voice, only empathy. It makes Isabella's chin wobble.

“I hadn't seen him in nine years,” she sighs. “Ah fuck it -” she takes the gin bottle, tops Hector up and takes a swig. Maeve studies her face closely, finding it hurts her how two people so alike can have so spectacularly failed to make it work. Maybe, she thinks, alike isn't the best after all, maybe two personalites like that are meant to find balance, not similarity. She cannot tell; judging people may be her forte but she's fairly sure that relationships still aren't, all she has is hope and yes, the slightly smug awareness that Hector is wonderful. Eighty percent wonderful, she decides, looking at him sideways – twenty percent alcohol.

“I think -” she says slowly - “I don't know how much you want to hear – but I think I can tell you that he loved you too.”

“He told you about me?”

“Darling, he could hardly help it, he wrote you into his favourite narrative.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but don't get too excited about it. He killed you off.”

“Fucker did what?!”

Maeve sighs.

“First he wrote a version of himself. The kind of man he would have liked to be, gave him some of his flaws, yes -” her eyes slide back to the drink in Hector's hand - “But stronger, braver, sweeter and – I am sorry – but far, far better looking -”

“Let me guess? Romantic villain type? That always was his trope, some sort of gunslinging rogue who talked a big talk, never missed a shot and could have had any girl in town?”

“Then he gave him a tragic backstory – darling, do you want to take this?”

“Her name was Isabella. She died.”

“I _died?_ In a fucking _backstory?_ Why that low down, son of a -”

Maeve forces herself not to laugh.

“That's men for you, sweetheart.”

“Yeah right, that's men – they'd prefer a girl was _dead_ than just leave them? Why if he wasn't already dead, I'd – so wait, you're saying there's a host out there who's in love with me?”

“Um -” Maeve winces a little.

“Not so much,” Hector nods. Isabella does not miss the glance Maeve gives him this time.

“Waaaait -” she closes her eyes - “Really? You? Oh you really are – so, his ideal, and you don't even love me? That's just -”

“It is nothing personal,” Hector shrugs.

“He _was_ supposed to,” Maeve adds.

“But I love her now.”

Isabella nods repeatedly, trying to be fine with this. Hector breathes out through his teeth awkwardly in the silence.

“I am going to be -” he throws a nervous 'need to escape' look towards the front room, anywhere.

“Elsewhere,” Isabella nods. “Here, you can take Leigh a snack.”

Hector exits in visible relief.

Maeve offers up a slight shrug and vaguely apologetic smile -

“Show me the garden?” she asks, mostly to break the sudden awkwardness. “I've never seen one before – not like that.”

Isabella nods and they go outside. Maeve walks out through the overgrown grass, marvelling at the tamed and the wild all in one place. She finds she has to touch everything to believe that it is real – the ivy, the bark of the trees, the flower petals like thin paper. She cannot be sure how any of this – touch or sight or the sound of the leaves rustling proves reality at all; she supposes she's not sure after all what real means. It is almost funny, she thinks, that it strikes her for the first time here, not amongst the buildings and shops and cars – how different this world is, how utterly and completely strange. It is amazing they are none of them made crazier by it than they are. Finally she looks up to see Isabella watching her with curiously compassionate frown.

“What?”

“You're just so – human.” She shakes her head, they gravitate towards a wooden bench beneath the laburnam tree - “I had no idea. I never _met_ one of you before – or not like this – you were more like – NPC's – in a game – you know?”

Maeve doesn't. Isabella gives her a quick explanation of video games.

“It never even occurred to us – or most of us, I guess, that you could be – I dunno – like this? Real? Independant. Feel like I should apologise.”

“You shouldn't,” Maeve waves it away. They sit quietly for a long moment that only just slightly begins to feel awkward.

“I should tell you about -” Maeve begins at the exact same time that Isabella says -

“So you know about -” They stop, laugh apologetically, look down for a moment. Maeve looks up first, catches the other woman's eye just enough -

“Lee?” she asks gently.

“You know how he died, don't you?”

“Yes. You could say it was -” for a moment she wants to say _my fault_ but she is not quite sure why because she does not feel like it was. “-for us,” she finishes. “For me. Because if he had not then Hector would have and even though he hated -” she waves a hand looking for the right phrase - “ _Us –_ the idea of us – of course he did – of course – it annoyed me at first but I -”

“Understand why?” Isabella raised an eyebrow - “Oh – I don't -” she added quickly - “Lee's story – it's not mine you know? I was just a character in it – one I'm not sure he even knew very well. I have my own story. Don't we all?”

Maeve struggles for a word big enough to convery her agreement. Eventually the word she finds is -

“- _fuck._ You're damn right we do. So – it happened like this -”

She only realises in the telling of it, how heroic an end it was. How it is not in being fearless that someone is truly brave, but in being terrified and doing the thing anyway. It was more than she would once have expected of Lee but now – now she wonders why she ever underrated him so badly. By the time she reaches the end she has to rub her eye a little.

“Wow,” Isabella says, studiously not looking at her, lacing and unlacing her fingers together in her lap - “I'd say that sounds like him but it doesn't. And the speech -”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The speech. Do you remember it?”

“No. But Hector will. You can ask him – but maybe just – not in front of Leigh?”

Isabella snorts.

“Of course. Speaking of which -”

“Yes. We should.”

It is curious, Maeve thinks, how easy this woman is to talk to. It feels like a long time since she had a friend who could understand her without her needing to say all the words she means. Not since Clementine. She closes her eyes. She knows their talks, their friendship was scripted, but it still does not make it hurt less. She supposes they should get back to the others too – except for she cannot shake the feeling that Isabella and Leigh should be a part of them – their group, their – whatever they are. They stand up, brushing fallen tree matter from their clothes, and head back into the flat.

-x-

**Updates may get a bit slower since I seem to be suddenly working on 3 different fics at once but rest assured they WILL happen :-)**


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